“Two bald meatballs with pockmarks of rice huddled forlornly together. They were probably two brothers. On a foggy autumn morning they set out to pick mushrooms, but the younger one, slightly flattened, was noisily raking with his foot, and they were heard by the cook, wandering nearby in search of rest. Or not, this is a couple of lovers who did manage to die on the same day. On a fine October day, when the leaves, burgundy with desire, want to fly away, and two meatballs in love merge into one big meatball and freeze with happiness...”